WEBVTT

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One more from the
forthcoming book.

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I wrote this when the genocide
in Palestine had just begun,

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and it was Thanksgiving and
everyone was being so grateful.

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Not that I have anything
against gratitude, of course.

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ٱلْحَمْدُ لِلَّٰهِ is
like the number one

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word in the Arabic language.

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But I felt like,
all right, we're

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buying large
turkeys, apparently.

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And so again, it's speaks
to the dissociation

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of the reality I was living
in through the news every day,

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and then the joyousness
of Thanksgiving

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and the disassociation
with that.

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This is "Southern Sonnet,"
and I refer to the South here.

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Ironically enough,
this was two years ago.

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The South is South Lebanon,
which is being reoccupied now.

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It wasn't back then, but
it was being bombarded

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and some journalists died.

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Of course, we know that
a lot of journalists

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died in Palestine as well.

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So when I refer to the South
here, it's South Lebanon.

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"Southern Sonnet."

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I'm trying to write
you a love song

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but the news overspills
as I boil coffee.

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Suppose no ruins open a poem.

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Remember the hidden
cyclamens, the mountains.

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I ask and fear my answers--

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if I sharpen my rage, will
it cut through public grief?

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We feed on names and nightmares.

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We repeat, when our
children's children are born,

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may your days be
much more beautiful.

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In the South, journalists
are murdered and forbidden

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rain falls mournful, like poets.

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On this Northern
continent, strangers

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sell smiles with large
turkeys and murderous thanks.

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Here, we lose language
and praise barren peace.

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Here, we lose
language and praise.

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Barren, peace smiles with large
turkeys and murderous thanks.

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On this Northern
continent, strangers

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sell forbidden rainfalls.

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Mournful like poets, in
the South Journalists

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are murdered and born.

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May your days be much
more beautiful, we repeat.

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When our children's
children are public grief,

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we feed on names and nightmares.

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If I sharpen my rage, will
it cut through the mountains?

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I ask and fear.

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My answers?

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Remember the hidden
cyclamens, suppose no ruins.

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Open a poem, the
news overspills.

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As I boil coffee, I am trying
to write you a love song but.

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[APPLAUSE]

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Thank you so much.

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[APPLAUSE]

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